7. Emory
7
EMORY
When I was five, my grandfather lost Nate on a busy street in New York City. Gram had stopped to buy pretzels from a sidewalk vendor. When she turned back around after paying, my brother was nowhere to be found. Opa was supposed to keep an eye on us, but he got distracted chatting with a friend. Nate had seen something that caught his attention and wandered off. We finally found him slumped against the wall of a toy store, completely absorbed in a comic book without a care in the world. Gram immediately swept him up in her arms. When she turned around to face Opa, Nate and I both knew he was in trouble. But his face remained calm and neutral, and just as Gram opened her mouth to scold him, he started tap dancing.
In the middle of a crowded street in New York City.
Nate and I burst out laughing, but stopped when we turned to Gram, whose eyes softened, shifting from anger to amusement. Laughter began to bubble up from deep within her, starting as a giggle and then transforming into uncontrollable laughter. We all laughed again, but as her laughter slowed, tears glistened in her eyes.
Of all my childhood memories, that one stands out the most. It was the first time I saw the connection between the two people who raised me. What could have turned into a loud argument in the middle of the street became a beautiful moment between two people who loved each other deeply. Gram had every right to be angry with Opa in that moment, and he could have gotten defensive. He could have downplayed her feelings or made her think it was her fault. But he didn't. He took our minds off the fear and anger, even if only for a moment. From then on, I knew I wanted to marry a man who would tap dance in the street to cheer me up when I was angry with him. But life had other plans for me, and as I grew up, I realized how rare my grandfather was. Still, I hold onto the hope that somewhere out there, there's a man who would embarrass himself to make me smile.
This is what I’m thinking about as I watch thick ab muscles flex and tattoos shift back and forth outside my window. Luke. He almost kissed me. And I wanted him to. God, I wanted him to kiss me. Make me forget. Or remember. I’m not sure which at this point.
Allie comes up behind me and wipes the side of my face.
“You’ve got a little drool there, sis.”
“Screw you,” I sass as I bat her hand away.
“I’d be open to it, but somehow I don’t think I’m the one you really want to fuck.”
“Lord, give me strength.” I look up to the sky as I hold my hands in prayer.
“Why don’t you just go talk to him?” she asks as if that’s the easiest thing in the world. It’s been two weeks since Luke flew into a jealous rage and almost kissed me. At least, I think it was jealousy. I haven’t completely dismissed my theory that he’s working for my brother.
Against my better judgment, I told Allie what happened, and she’s been tormenting me about it ever since. Meanwhile, Luke and I haven’t exchanged so much as a wave in that time. Either I’m at work, or he’s at work or out. It’s clear as day that he’s been avoiding me.
“What would I even say?”
“For starters, ‘I want to ride your face until I come so many times I forget my own name,’” Allie says casually as she flops onto the couch and turns on the TV.
I let out a loud groan. Over the past two weeks, I've experienced a rollercoaster of emotions. At first, I was furious. How could he ambush my date, pin me against my own car, almost kiss me, and then just walk away like it meant nothing? Then, I started to feel self-conscious. Maybe he really did want to kiss me, but then realized I was a total loser and changed his mind. Then I must have started ovulating or something because I got really horny. I think my vibrator shorted out at one point. And who was front and center in every one of the fantasies I used to get myself off? Luke Motherfucking Collins.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, Luke started fixing his bike in his driveway every weekend morning in nothing but low-hanging gray sweatpants.
Which brings us to today.
Saturday. My day off.
I have nothing to do but watch my sex god of a neighbor work on his motorcycle without a shirt. I look down at my faded Ellsmont University T-shirt. It’s mine, but a men’s extra large because I love wearing long shirts as nightgowns. I have panties on, but no bra.
Then I get an idea.
If Luke thinks he can strut around outside half-naked, then two can play that game.
I grab Allie’s watering can from the utility closet and slip on my flip-flops. I look over at Allie, who is sipping her coffee and staring at her phone, some cooking show playing in the background. Good. She’s distracted.
I open the door slowly so as not to make any noise and slip out. I fill up the watering can with the hose on the side of the house closest to Luke's, bending at a ninety-degree angle with my ass up in the air. Then, I shuffle across the grass to water the plants and flowers in our garden. I crouch down, pretending to inspect the petals on some flowers—not that I know what I'm doing; this is Allie's territory. I sneak a glance, and sure enough, Luke is staring at me, his tool paused mid-air near the front tire of his bike. I flash him a sweet smile and a friendly wave. He raises his hand, but instead of waving, he just holds it mid-air for a few awkward seconds.
When he finally lowers his hand and goes back to work, I shift from crouching to kneeling. Then, I get on all fours and pretend to dig into the dirt, making my hips sway back and forth. I hear a low masculine groan come from Luke’s direction, immediately followed by a stream of curses. I jerk my head up to see him clutching his forearm, his face contorted in pain.
Oh, shit.
Without thinking, I rush over to him, dirt still clinging to my palms and falling off my knees. He’s holding his arm as blood gushes down and drips onto the ground.
“Pressure,” I call out. “You have to hold pressure on it.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” he yells.
“Okay, okay. Let me see it.” I gently pull the hand holding onto his arm back, and blood starts to flow out faster.
Luke hisses. “Fuck.”
“It’s okay. Just—” I look around for something to hold pressure with, but he’s not wearing a shirt, and I’m not wearing anything underneath mine. I look down and notice a slight rip at the bottom of my shirt. I tear it until I have a big enough scrap, then wrap it around Luke’s arm and hold pressure with the palm of my hand.
“Can you walk with me over to the steps?”
He nods.
We walk over with my hand still attached to him and sit on the steps in silence for a few minutes, but it’s not uncomfortable. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or maybe he’s in too much pain to even care, but it doesn’t feel awkward to be sitting next to him, touching, both of us in various states of undress.
“I’m going to move my hand and check on the wound again, okay?” I ask after about five minutes of holding pressure. He nods again.
I move my hand with the piece of shirt, and thankfully, the blood flow has slowed. But he has a pretty nasty gash, about four inches long.
“What happened?”
“My wrench slipped,” he mutters.
“Well, the bleeding has slowed down, so that’s good, but it looks like you’re going to need stitches. I can drive you to the ER if you w?—”
“No,” he cuts in. “I don’t do hospitals.” He says it firmly, like there is zero room for negotiation.
“Okay…we could try urgent care, but the wait there is actually sometimes longer and?—”
“Can’t you just do it?” He cuts me off again, and his tone sounds slightly panicked.
“Me?”
“Yeah. You’re a nurse. No?”
“Yes, but I don’t place sutures.”
“But you’ve seen it done, right? I’m sure you can wing it.”
“You want me to wing sewing your skin back together?”
“Listen, Emory. I don’t like hospitals, medical buildings, doctors’ offices…you get the picture.”
I let out an exasperated sigh. Who knew Luke was so high-maintenance? “Even if I wanted to, I don’t have the supplies.”
“Can you get them?” He looks up at me, his blue eyes pleading. I’ve never seen him so vulnerable before. I don’t think I have it in me to say no. He looks like a little boy who is frightened to go to the doctor’s office. It’s kind of cute. But also a little sad. I can’t help but wonder what happened to make him hate hospitals so much. Most likely, he or a relative had an extended stay in a hospital. That’s what usually causes people to have an aversion to them.
I know this is crazy. I’m risking my job, not to mention my nursing license if I do it. But this is Luke. If the roles were reversed, he would do it for me without any hesitation. Not because it’s me, but because that’s just the type of man he is. If someone needs help, he helps. No questions asked. He’s certainly gotten Nate out of a bind or two in the past. He deserves someone to take care of him. I give myself five more seconds to talk myself out of it before making the decision.
“Okay, fine. I’ll do it. But I need you to go into your house and keep holding pressure until I get back. Sit on the couch and do not move. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He smirks, that cocky confidence back in full force. How is he still so sexy even when he’s bleeding out? I roll my eyes and help him up so he can keep hold of his arm.
“I’ll be as quick as I can,” I say as he opens his door.
He nods, his eyes connecting with mine. “I’ll be here.”
Going unnoticed at work was easier than I thought. Actually, I’m offended that no one even remotely noticed me as I slipped into the Emergency Department and grabbed the supplies I need. I had gone home to change into scrubs to blend in, but it wouldn’t have mattered even if I had shown up in my underwear and a ripped T-shirt.
I pull into my driveway, grab the supplies from the passenger seat, and head over to Luke's, silently praying that Allie is still distracted. I don't feel like explaining why I'm doing a medical procedure I'm not qualified to do on our next-door neighbor. What she doesn't know can't hurt her.
His front door is closed, but I decide against knocking, not wanting him to get up from the couch. When I walk in, I see Luke slumped on the couch, still clutching his arm wrapped in my torn shirt. His eyes are fixed on the TV, but as soon as he hears me, he grabs the remote and turns it off.
“You might want to keep that on. You'll need the distraction. I managed to get the supplies for the sutures, but the anesthetics and pain meds are locked away. I didn't want to risk my entire career by breaking in.”
“Of course,” he says, standing up way too fast, wobbling slightly. “I’m glad you didn’t do that.”
“Whoa there, big guy." I grab his arm to steady him, but since he’s so much taller than me, his swaying makes me sway too. We both end up falling sideways onto the couch. “Why don't you just stay put on the couch and I'll set everything up at the kitchen table?” I suggest, wiggling out from under him.
“Okay.”
“Great.”
“Hey, you changed,” he calls as I set everything up at the table.
“Um…yeah.”
“I liked what you were wearing better before.” Then he adds, “But I guess this outfit is more legit. You know, for stitching me up.”
I can’t help the smile that creeps up my face. “Okay, we’re all set. If you want to sit here, you can still see the TV,” I point to the chair I have angled toward the living room. It’s all open concept, so he can watch TV from the chair in the kitchen.
“Nah. I’ll have all the distraction I need without it.”
Well, okay.
“Stand slowly this time,” I direct him as he goes to get off the couch. I hold onto his arm as he rises. “Good. Any dizziness?”
“Not from the blood loss,” he says, looking me up and down.
I do my best to ignore his blatant flirting and direct him to the makeshift emergency room bay I set up. He sits, holding out his injured arm as I wash my hands before snapping on surgical gloves.
“I’m going to start by cleaning the wound. It’s going to feel cold and might sting a bit.”
“Oka—fuck.”
He jumps the second I apply the antiseptic solution.
“I told you it might sting. You have like a hundred tattoos. This should be a breeze, right?” I try to hype him up, knowing that the worst is yet to come.
He eyes me up and down. “Yeah, but my tattoo artists aren’t quite as sadistic as you look right now.”
“Excuse me? I am the picture of compassionate bedside manner.” He jumps again. “You need to hold still. If you jump like that when I have a needle to your skin, it’s not going to end well.”
Finally, he is still, wincing slightly as I apply the rest of the antiseptic, making sure to clean the entire area.
“Okay. You’re going to feel some pulling.”
He nods.
It must hurt like hell, but Luke does his best to swallow down the pain as I tug on his skin with the forceps to get clean edges. As I hold the needle, I take a deep breath. You can do this, Emory. You’ve seen it hundreds of times. You’ve got this. My mini pep talk out of the way, I look up at Luke. “Ready?” I ask.
“Ready,” he confirms.
I pierce his skin with the needle, coming out through the other side of the wound. Luke grits his teeth but remains still. I keep working, pulling the suture through and tying a knot. I can see he’s in pain, but if I stop or slow down, this will take forever and prolong the inevitable. I need to work quickly and get it over with. I repeat the same process down the length of the cut.
When I’m about four stitches in, he lets out a moan, and I know it’s one of pain, but why does it sound so hot? Is that what he sounds like in the throes of passion? I shake my head and continue my work, ignoring the slight pulse to my core.
“Almost there, Luke. Just two more. You’re doing great.”
I tie the last suture and cut the material, ensuring the tie is secure. Then, I clean the area one more time and bandage it.
“Okay, all set,” I say, snapping my gloves off. “Not so bad, right?”
“I need a beer,” he groans.
“Sorry, no beer. Drinking alcohol can increase the chance of infection. Take two Tylenol every four to six hours. That should help with the pain. Change the bandage after showering. I’ll leave some extra ones for you. I’ll need to remove the sutures in about a week. Oh, and try to avoid strenuous activity for the next forty-eight hours.”
He eyes me up and down at that last part. “Got it.” He smirks and then adds, “I’ll need your number, though. You know, in case it gets infected or something.”
“I’m right next door.”
“I’d feel more comfortable if I could reach you any time of day or night,” he says as he stands up and walks around the table to grab his phone off the counter.
I huff and reach out for his phone. I put my number in it, but as I hand it back to him, irritation starts to build from somewhere deep within.
“What the fuck, Luke?” I spit out, and, okay, that came out a little more aggressive than I intended.
“What?” He looks taken aback by my sudden shift in mood.
“First, you burst into my date like a jealous boyfriend and demand information that was none of your damn business, by the way. Then you pin me to my car and almost kiss me. Then, you flat-out ignore me for weeks. And now you’re shamelessly flirting with me while I’m sewing you back together. You’re giving me whiplash, Collins.” I exhale, realizing I hadn’t taken a single breath during that entire rant.
I expect him to look angry, confused, bewildered, even. But the look on his face is pure amusement.
And that smirk.
Fuck that smirk.
I want to slap it off his goddamn face.
As if that’s not bad enough, the amusement on his face slowly turns to realization.
“So that’s what your little performance was about?”
“Performance?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Caldwell. The performance where you came outside in nothing but a flimsy shirt and panties and crawled around in the dirt, gyrating your hips like you were in a fucking porno.”
“Excuse me? I gasp, holding my hand to my heart. “I was gardening.”
He snickers. “Sure.”
“And what about your performance? Or should I say repeat performance? You know, the one where you fix your bike in nothing but those slutty gray sweatpants,” I yell as I gesture to the offending pants.
Luke immediately starts laughing. No, not laughing. Wheezing.
“Careful, you’re going to blow a stitch. And what is so funny?” I ask, my hands firmly planted on my hips.
“Oh, just the hypocrisy of it all. I say you have ‘fuck me’ heels on, and I’m sexist, but you get to call my clothing slutty and get a pass.”
“Yeah, well. Try being overlooked, belittled, and objectified for centuries, and then come talk to me about feminism being a double standard.”
“Okay, touché.” He takes a small step toward me. “I’m not mad, anyway. I don’t mind being objectified by you.”
“Again with the flirting. Luke, you’re driving me cra?—”
One minute we're arguing, and the next, his lips are on mine. Our mouths connect in a soft, gentle kiss. It's cohesive, like two pieces of a puzzle finally coming together. But just as quickly as it begins, it's over. His lips leave mine, and I instantly feel the loss of his warmth. Not just the physical warmth of his lips, but the warmth of his soul. Because somehow, during the mere seconds we were connected, I felt his entire being flood my veins.
“I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” He backs away a step.
“Then why did you?”
“Because I’ve wanted to do that for the past ten years,” he mumbles.
Ten years? Ten years?
Luke Collins has wanted to kiss me since I was fourteen? He can’t possibly mean that. Or maybe I didn’t hear him correctly.
“Okay, buddy, I think that’s the blood loss talking. Maybe you need to sit down again.”
“It’s not the blood loss,” he mutters.
I gaze up into his eyes. Gram always said eyes never lie, and Luke's are honest—two blue pools of pure, naked, vulnerable honesty. I take a step forward before I can think twice. It feels like I'm outside my body, looking down at the scene from above. I close my eyes as our lips meet again. He opens his mouth, and our tongues intertwine, the kiss no longer gentle or soft, but heated, messy—possessive. His hand slides up, tugging off the elastic in my hair, and it falls in waves around his face. Then he's sitting on the chair, pulling me onto his lap. I straddle him, tracing soft circles on his bare back. Something hard digs into my belly as his erection strains against his sweatpants.
“We should stop,” I say, breaking the kiss. Disappointment flashes across his face.
“This definitely counts as strenuous activity,” I tease with a giggle, but it doesn’t quite meet my face.
“Yeah—” he starts to say.
And then there’s the sound of a door opening.
A latch undoing.
A slight creak.
A voice.
“Hey, man. You here? Sorry it took me so long to stop by.”